


light and warmth and air

by acertainheight



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Kid Fic, Post-Canon, in which they're pirates. and then moms. pirate moms!!!, tags and characters updated with each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-13 08:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7969210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acertainheight/pseuds/acertainheight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were certain things, Hawke thought then and thinks now, that you just have to live with when you love someone so much that your heart skips approximately twenty-seven beats every time she smiles in her sleep. Like the fact that she snores just a little bit, and always brews the tea too strong, and sees every fight as a competition she has to win. This was one of those things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a long-ago prompt but also reliant on my own headcanons / whims / love for a good pirate adventure. (very nearly my canon hawkebela at this point!! pls don't ask about the actual hours i spent wedging this plot into the canon timeline around the comics and inquisition only for none of those timeline details to make it here anyway aughgh.) updates may be sporadic - i know i know - but the whole thing is mostly plotted out and a good deal is written-but-unedited, so updates _will_ come. eventually. count on it. as always, thanks for reading  <3

o bird on the wire,  
what is the world to you?  
no vast place of unseen pressing things  
designed by hidden gods;  
just light, and warmth,  
and air to beat your wings upon!  
       - from "sparrow," by george o'neil.

_i._

“Isabela!” Hawke flew through the rigging, reckless and wild, and hit the deck of the _Encanto_ with a gasp. Her palms were raw from the ropes, her throat burned from a day spent shouting, and her legs ached so badly that they nearly buckled when she dropped to the deck—but none of that registered over her frantic need to track down a certain pirate captain. “Isabela!”

Isabela met her on the main deck in a similar state, skidding on the sea-slick planks and nearly crashing right into her. She caught Hawke by the elbows at the last minute and stumbled into her arms instead. They both paused for a fraction of a second, just long enough to exchange desperately fond smiles, and then Isabela was the captain again: “Bad news?”

“There's three of them. Orlesian frigates—big, fast, definitely headed our way. They'll outrun us in an hour, and that's if we're lucky.”

“ _Mierda._ ” Isabela's iron certainty flickered, but only for an instant. She drew herself up, the perfect picture of the Queen of the Eastern Seas, hands on her hips and eyes aflame. “Ready to take down the Orlesian army, sweet thing?”

“It feels like we just did that last week. Can't we have normal hobbies like normal people? Gardening, maybe. Knitting. Nevarran throat-singing.”

“When you figure out how to garden on the ship, I'll eat my hat.”

Isabela took off across the deck and Hawke followed, falling into step at her side. “It's a big hat. Don't make promises you can't keep.” Isabela shot her a sideways smile and Hawke grinned back. “What if I gardened on, say, _not_ a ship? We could retire from our life of crime, start a small beet farm, achieve rapid success, supply half the beets in Thedas. Something along those lines.”

“You want to retire every time we're being hunted by a foreign navy. Strangest coincidence.”

“Inexplicable, absolutely inexplicable,” Hawke sighed, lifting her gaze to the sky as dramatically as she could. Dark clouds loomed in the distance, but the blue above them was untainted by any signs of trouble.

Isabela chuckled and drew Hawke's eyes back to her with a hand on her waist. “Kiss me once for luck, you terrible gorgeous beet farmer. And then I'll do the shouty bit you like.”

“Mm.” Hawke grinned and tugged her in for a drawn-out kiss not entirely appropriate for a crisis situation; Isabela went up on her tiptoes and Hawke tilted her head just right to dodge the brim of her gaudy hat, a long-practiced motion. “You know I love the shouty bit. And I'm rather fond of you, too,” she said, suddenly low and serious, “so I hope you have a good plan to get us out of this one.”

Isabela laughed against the corner of Hawke's mouth, pressing one more kiss to her cheek before stepping away. “I'm hoping to come up with a really, really excellent plan in the next fifteen seconds.”

She made as if to leave and then paused, turning and taking two long steps right into Hawke's arms again. “Make it ten,” Hawke whispered in her ear, prolonging the embrace as long as she possibly could. And then Isabela took off.

Like that, the shouty bit began. Isabela was everywhere at once, a fearsome sight with her coat billowing about her and her hair whipping in the wind. She hadn't cut it since Kirkwall, and months of sea breeze and saltspray had turned her curls wild; Hawke thought she was too beautiful to be believed, too beautiful to exist. She hung back as the crew gravitated towards Isabela and soaked in the image of her captain at work.

The first time Hawke saw Isabela take control of her crew, she felt like she was seeing Isabela—really, truly seeing her—for the first time. It took her breath away, left her dazed and almost shy. She was used to the sight now, but no less awed each time Isabela demonstrated precisely why she was the captain. (And, in the interest of full disclosure, a little turned on. Every single time.)

Isabela's voice rose as sharp as steel above the waves. The men closed around her, each one listening with the utmost attentiveness. They'd been at this— _this_ being sailing away from all their problems—for nearly a year, and Hawke had never once seen anyone hesitate to follow Isabela's orders for even a second. Not so much as a cough or a sneer. On the shore, Isabela was a captain. But on her ship, she was a god.

There would be no outrunning their pursuers, not on the open sea. Isabela opened her speech with that cheery detail. Not a warning, not a threat—the truth, and the men met it with grim silence. Isabela stood as straight as a blade, all eyes on her, and laid the rest of the truth out before them. They could turn and fight—“which would make for a good story,” she declared, “along with our rather tragic deaths”—or they could try something different.

Everyone leaned forward at this, expecting brilliance or something close to it; Isabela met Hawke's eyes over the gathered crew and gave her a lopsided smile, one that said _I'm absolutely making this up as I go._ And Hawke grinned back, nothing less than utterly sure of her.

“Well, boys,” she said, “want to mount a daring escape and start a minor war along the way?”

A cheer went up like Isabela had just proposed something with any details, or something that made even a lick of practical sense—the absolutely-uncalled-for sort of cheering that Isabela had once remarked was the very best part of captaining a vessel. Hawke leaned back against the railing, watched her captain pass out orders with enough confidence for the whole lot of them, and grinned so wide her jaw ached. It really never got old.

When the chaos settled back into an approximation of order, Hawke met Isabela at the helm, drawing her attention with a hand to the small of her back. “Is that the whole plan? Tell me that's not the whole plan.”

“Ha.” Isabela fixed her with an affectionate scowl. “We're going to cut back towards the coast and try to lose them long enough to make it through the island pass. We'll have the wind.”

“And by the pass, you're referring to, I can only assume you're definitely absolutely not talking about the west coast of Brandel's Reach.”

“That would be the one. We'll lose them there and sail straight north as fast as we possibly can.”

“Excellent,” Hawke said. “Let's sail right through Murder Channel. Shall we head for It Was Nice Knowing You Cove after that? I hear it's lovely this time of year.”

Isabela waved a hand dismissively. “You're forgetting that we're pirates, sweet thing. The rough-and-tumble fearsome sort. And I'm infamous, beautiful, well-respected, all that.”

“Right. Just out of curiosity, do you remember that time you said you made a point of avoiding Brandel's Reach because it was an excellent place to get killed in your sleep?”

Isabela grinned at that, far more self-satisfied than Hawke really thought she'd earned. “I don't recall. The point is, I think they'll respect the Orlesian navy even less. If the Orlesians are even brave enough to follow us there.”

“Uh-huh,” Hawke said, “because of the very rocky coast which will send us sinking to our deaths.”

Isabela pinned her with a winning smile. “If it comes down to that, maybe the sudden rush of adrenaline will finally teach you how to swim.”

Hawke was carefully working on the perfect retort to that when Brand popped up on Isabela's side. The handsome blonde elf bared his teeth in a fierce grin, a light flashing in his eyes to match Isabela's, and lifted his hand to his forehead in a half-serious salute. “Don't mean to interrupt, Captain, but I think we might need to talk through some details here.”

“So we might.” Isabela released the wheel long enough to squeeze Hawke's hand. “Go make yourself useful, sweet thing. Keep watch. Don't fall off, if you can help it.”

“I'll do my best, Captain.”

Hawke left Isabela and her first mate to their plotting. Back in Kirkwall, when she'd dared to get carried away imagining an _after,_ Hawke had always pictured herself as Isabela's first mate. It seemed right: The two of them, side-by-side, chasing the horizon. And then Hawke had actually set foot on the ship, and she'd spent a week nauseous and tripping over her own feet. Isabela had—rather generously, in hindsight—let Hawke pretend to be important right up until they had landed in Llomerynn, bid farewell to their ragtag crew of Kirkwall refugees, and replaced them with a veritable army of Isabela's old friends and acquaintances. Then she'd demoted Hawke to cabin boy (to the amusement of the rest of the crew) and Hawke had spent days standing around aimlessly before Isabela so much as let her touch a mop.

Still, Hawke hadn't minded the demotion. For the first time in years, she woke up each morning without the crushing weight of responsibility on her shoulders. For the most part, the days were good. Safe. She liked lazy afternoons spent staring at the waves or fishing over the rails. She liked the noise of the ship, languages she'd never heard before and the constant echo of laughter, just as much as she liked the quiet peace of the crow's nest. And she liked when Isabela put on the great big hat and told her about all the varied ways in which she needed to service her captain—that part was especially nice.

And at any rate, Brand made a better first mate than Hawke ever did. She liked him, especially when he told her stories about Isabela from years ago—young and wild and always in a great deal of shit. And when Hawke had to disappear for a few weeks soon after Kirkwall thanks to all the people who wanted her head on a spike, Brand had done an admirable job of keeping Isabela and the ship in one piece in her absence. Hawke appreciated that in a first mate.

Isabela and Brand had been at this for a lifetime between them; Hawke hadn't been at it for a year yet. Still, she was already used to the sensation of pursuers hot on their heels. The Champion of Kirkwall made a nice target, especially when the Champion associated with a particularly daring pirate who liked to steal anything she could get her hands on. But all the biggest dangers—the ominous, hell-breaking-loose ones—faded more with every day, as the world came up with more interesting things to worry about than Marian Hawke, The One Who Royally Fucked Up Kirkwall And Possibly The Whole World, Maker Save Our Sorry Asses. A few Orlesians out for blood wasn't so bad at all in comparison.

The crew, too, was used to the occasional looming threat; each man moved with familiar ease and lightning speed about the ship in an intricate dance that Hawke still didn't quite comprehend. She could play her part well enough, though. She jumped at the ratline, bounding up the boards until she was on the swaying ropes alone. She swung to the shroud, hauled herself up to the mizzen-top, and continued her ascent, letting out a curse every time she glanced over her shoulder to spy the small dots in the distance of Orlesian sails. Bigger every second. Their own ship was bearing down on the coast now, ready to tack north at the last possible minute.

She dimly heard Isabela down below, shouting orders and sending the men scurrying, but they were all small and distant as she swung on the topgallant mast. She didn't have to hear Isabela to imagine her orders, mixed with Rivaini curses and her laugh and Brand's sharp whistle. Disaster never stopped her from laughing.

The men let loose the sails they'd kept furled until now, finally more concerned with speed than with not being seen, and the wind filled them in a rush. It was a dangerous game they were playing, Hawke thought, eyeing their pursuers in the distance. There was no good reason why the Orlesians wouldn't divide and meet them at both ends of the channel. Their great escape wouldn't be easy. Still, knowing Isabela, it would be one hell of an adventure.

“Ready about!” The shout drifted up from below. With a great, thunderous creaking, the _Encanto_ turned towards the coast. The Orlesians disappeared behind the craggy cliffs of the coast. Hawke waited, eyes trained on the spot where their pursuers had disappeared from sight.

And then, after several agonizingly long minutes, the Orlesians rounded the bend, closer than before—close enough for Hawke to see that they were tacking at the wrong angle, as if they hadn't noticed the maneuvers of the _Encanto._ Hawke let out a whoop loud enough for the others in the rigging to hear it, and the cry carried down to the deck, passed from man to man.

The next hours passed in a blur of wild motion, alternating between frantic shouts and grim silence. Every time they picked up speed, drawing ahead for a heartbeat, so too did the Orlesians. The Orlesians were close enough for Hawke to see that they were fully manned; it was no half-hearted pursuit. But they were also too close to turn back now, not without losing the _Encanto_ or risking their ships against the black rocks _._ All four ships were headed straight into the channel.

Hawke descended the shroud and the ratline in heedless leaps, always catching the rope ahead of her at the last possible second, until at last her feet were planted on the deck again. She pushed through the busy scene, finally making her way to Isabela. Her captain stood steadfast and lovely at the helm. Hawke drew to a halt behind her and tipped her hat up with one hand to kiss the soft skin on the back of her neck, her whisper for Isabela's ears alone: “They're bearing down fast. How much of your plan relies on luck?”

“Almost all of it,” Isabela said. She sounded cheerful, and Hawke smiled against the back of her neck.

“I hope this is worth it.”

“It will be, once we make it to Antiva.” Isabela threw a glance over her shoulder, matching Hawke's smile. “We'll sell everything, wipe our hands of it, and spend a week fucking, drinking, and counting our gold. Just you and me. How does that sound, sweet thing?”

“If all you want is time alone, Orlesian prison's as good as anywhere,” Hawke teased, and Isabela scoffed.

“I'm on an excellent streak of _not_ going to prison for the first time in years. I'm not planning to break it for the Orlesians, of all people.” Her lips quirked in a smile. “You, however, could probably use some time in prison. Builds character.”

“Do dungeons count? I've been in a lot of dungeons.” Hawke grinned, kissed her cheek, and stepped back. In the distance, she could hear Brand shouting: anyone who's not essential, below decks. That was her. Thoroughly non-essential. “I'd better leave you to the whole sailing thing before we all drown.”

“Everyone can swim but you, if it comes to that,” Isabela reminded her.

“Fine! More rubble for me to cling to.”

They both laughed, distracted for one perfect moment from the mess unfolding all around them, and then Hawke took off across the deck. One parting glance, one final image of Isabela at the helm to hold on to—that was better than any amount of luck. And then she dropped through the hatch into the belly of the ship.

Hawke bumped into Landen, their carpenter, at the foot of the ladder. He smiled at her, his crooked teeth obvious even in the dim light below decks. Landen had been friendly to her from the start, with all the sympathy of an old man who'd counseled more than a few novice seafarers in his day. A rough man, but a warm one, who came recommended by the friend of a friend of a friend Isabela had once known—or something like that. The sight of his smile was a small, crucial comfort.

“Think we'll make it through this one alive, hm?” He waggled his bushy brows, looking nothing like a man pursued by the Orlesian navy. But then again, not much bothered him. He was originally Fereldan, until he spent six years in prison in Denerim and made his way to Llomerynn for good after that. He liked to tell Hawke that if she'd spent more time chained to a wall next to the smelliest bloke in all of Thedas, she wouldn't fear death. She figured he was probably right.

“Excellent question!” Hawke laughed, more a burst of nervous energy than anything else. “What do you think?”

He winked at her and rubbed a scar on his cheek. “As long as we've got that little lady of yours—I mean the captain _,_ don't mind me—at the helm, we'll be alright. We've gotten through worse messes.”

“As long as it's not the _worst—_ ”

The ship rocked beneath them suddenly; Hawke almost lost her footing and Landen steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. His grip was strong for a man without any color left in his beard thanks to years spent with a hammer in his hand. Hawke was acutely grateful for him. “Don't worry none,” he said, clearly seeing the fear written on her face. “If we're sinking, you'll know it right away.”

“Reassuring,” Hawke said, voice less steady than she'd like. So much for the big brave Champion.

Landen steered her by the shoulders through a small cluster of crewmen to a porthole. There was nothing to see but grey waves and grey rocks and vast emptiness, but Hawke felt the vise clenched around her chest loosen.

“Stand here,” he told her. “Breathe. And put some faith in your lady up there—the captain, no disrespect meant—to get us through this.”

Hawke obediently took a deep breath, trying not to choke on the stale air. She hated being down here, locked up away from the sky while everything happened above them. The sight of the water, only one small circle of glass away, helped. A little. “You don't think we'll all die in Orlesian prison?”

He roared with laughter. “I've escaped worse prisons in my day. Those Orlesians, they're downright posh next to the ox-men. We'd be just fine, lass.” Again he winked, and Hawke couldn't help but smile back.

“So what do we do until they let us out of this coffin?”

He paused before he spoke: “Pray, if you're the type. Or wait.” He squeezed her shoulder one last time before moving back to his work.

Soon, the beat of his hammer against a broken step resumed, as steady as a wardrum. The waves crashed louder against the sides of the ship now, higher and higher as they move further through the narrow channel. Hawke closed her eyes and tried to picture the scene up above: the sails lashed down tight, speed officially a greater danger than the Orlesians; men swinging in the ropes, shouting warnings for every obstacle up ahead; Isabela holding on to the wheel like she was chained to it, all fire and lightning and grim determination; Brand shouting like—

“Hawke! Hawke!”

She glanced up, jerked from the safety of her imagination, to see Brand staring down at her from the top of the ladder. The sky that framed his angular face was grey now, streaked with widening clouds.

“Shit's bad. You've been deemed essential.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the open square of sky. It wasn't often that Hawke saw him serious, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Captain's wanting you.”

When Hawke made it up top, the waves were so wild it looked as if there had been a storm—the deck was slick with seawater, and by the time Hawke made it to the helm, she was drenched. Isabela was a fearsome sight, standing still as stone in the winds that whipped the waves across the deck. Her hat had blown off, but she stood with it pinned beneath one boot—she'd drown before she'd let it wash overboard, Hawke thought in a rush of nervous fondness.

“You're looking for me?” Hawke asked. She chanced a glance behind them at the three Orlesian ships so close that she could make out the carving on the prow of the first ship.

“I need a favor,” Isabela said. Her voice sounded hoarse.

“Anything, as long as it doesn't involve skill or wild heroics.”

“I need you to stand behind me and put your arms around my waist and just—” Isabela exhaled, sharp. “Do the thing you do, where you're all tall and steady and reassuring.”

“I can do that,” Hawke said, quick. And she obeyed, looping her arms around Isabela's waist and pressing close against her. The top of Isabela's head came to her shoulder (even with the higher-heeled boots that Isabela bought for the sole purpose of looking a little taller next to Hawke), and Hawke tilted her head down to kiss the top of her head. “This seems impractical, you know.”

“What, slowly sailing a ship built for the open seas through a narrow channel while pursued by a great number of people who'd like to kill us?”

“That too. I meant the bit where you have me here to do... this.”

Isabela let out a sharp bark of a laugh and pressed back into Hawke. For a moment, Hawke could almost forget that they were standing here on the brink of disaster; they could be anywhere, safe and sound. “It's not impractical. Our odds of survival are much better if I have you here. I'm always comforted by the reminder that I can't get us into more trouble than _you've_ gotten me into. The worst thing I can do is crash the ship. It's not like I could, say, nearly destroy a city or anything like that.”

“In my defense,” Hawke mumbled into her hair, “I did that for _you_ the first time.”

“What about the second time?” Isabela asked. Her voice sounded strained, not nearly as light as she was trying to seem.

“I was just bored the second time. I thought, hm, not much happening this week, maybe I should see what I can do to start a really grand rebellion.”

“You're terrible,” Isabela said, voice soft and fond. “And you inconvenience me on a regular basis.”

“I'm not the one who woke up a few weeks back with the idea of stealing all the priceless Orlesian artifacts we could get our hands on.”

“Actually,” Isabela began sharply, some technicality on the tip of her tongue, but then a shout went up from the men in the rigging.

“Ships coming in 'round the ridge!”

Victor—the handsome young Rivani noteworthy for his missing ear and foul mouth—swung down the ropes, stumbling to a halt in front of Isabela with his hands on his knees while he caught his breath: “We can see two vessels. Single-mast but bristling with men. Don't recognize the colors they're flying—not Armada raiders—but they're tearing after the Orlesians.” He spit after the last word like it was a curse and shook his head.

Isabela took a deep breath; Hawke could feel the tension slide out of her shoulders. “When we make it through this alive, you're swabbing down the deck. Spit in front of me again and you're doing it for a month, _pendejo._ Get back up there and keep an eye on things.”

Victor obeyed. Hawke watched him climbing the rigging and squeezed Isabela's hips. “Your terrible plan is working. We've got backup.”

“If it's working, it's not terrible.”

“That's not what you say about all _my_ terrible plans.”

“That's different, sweet thing.” Hawke could practically hear the smile on her lips.

A wave crashed over the side of the ship, knocking both their smiles away. Isabela spat out a stream of curses and Hawke reached around her to grab the wheel, steadying them both. It felt like they hit something—not hard enough to panic, not quite, but just hard enough that Hawke remembered she was supposed to be nervous.

“You're not bad at this for someone renowned for sinking ships.”

“If you're asking to be tossed overboard, I can make that happen,” Isabela told her through gritted teeth.

“That's not funny!”

“It's very funny.” Isabela chanced a glance over her shoulder. “Is it just me, or are the Orlesians lagging?”

Hawke followed her gaze. “It's not just you,” she said, trying not to sound too hopeful. The raider sloops had the Orlesians preoccupied, like a swarm of wasps descending on some great beast. Hawke counted four of the smaller ships now. The Orlesian ships were too big to begin with, hemmed in on all sides by the cliff-face and the raiders.

Isabela laughed. “They made a mistake flying their flag in these waters. Self-righteous fucking nationalist pri—”

Another wave smashed into the ship and they both lost their footing, Hawke's head cracking into the boards and Isabela's head cracking into Hawke. A low rumble accompanied the wave: the rumble of a ship going over something it shouldn't. Hawke gasped and shook her head to clear her vision, stumbling to her feet and dragging Isabela with her.

Brand met them at the helm, panic in his eyes. It was a rare look for him.

“We're taking on water down below, Captain. Enough to worry.”

Isabela blinked at him and swayed unsteadily; she sounded dazed from the fall, still not quite herself: “I want every spare hand we've got on that. We're not far from the open sea. Keep us afloat until then. We're going to make it to Antiva City if it kills me.”

Hawke groaned, pressing her face into Isabela's shoulder. A childhood spent listening to ominous Chantry warnings left her slightly superstitious, especially when coupled with Isabela's capacity to attract disaster. “Don't _say_ things like that.”

“We're going to make it to Antiva City if it kills you,” Isabela amended. “How's that?”

Hawke laughed hoarsely and locked her arms around Isabela's waist. “Joke's on you, I'm invincible.”

“You do insist on acting like you are,” Isabela said, sounding almost irritated. It wouldn't be the first time Hawke had gotten a lecture on this exact subject, though it would be the first time she'd gotten it in the middle of an elaborate chase at sea.

Brand interrupted them with a clap. “For once, can the two of you shut up?” Isabela only managed the first syllable of an indignant reprimand before he continued: “Shut up and look behind us.”

It was worth the look. Hawke let out the shaky breath she felt like she'd been holding for hours. They were further away from the Orlesians every second, and when the wind subtly shifted, it carried the sound of combat with it.

“The raiders have boarded at least one of the frigates,” Brand said, his voice almost reverent. “The worst plan I've ever been a part of and it worked.”

And then young Victor, looking even more out of breath than before, came barreling across the deck towards them. “Captain,” he gasped, “Captain, we're taking on water faster than we can handle. There's a breach and it's getting worse.”

Hawke could feel Isabela tense, but she didn't hesitate. “You're certain?”

“Aye.”

“How far do you think we've can make it? As far as Estwatch?”

Victor wrinkled his nose. “Depends on how well you can swim, don't it?”

“Don't get smart, Vic,” Isabela snapped at him. He straightened up immediately, but she was barely paying attention to him now. “Clear out of here, grab anyone you can, and drag them below deck with you. Keep us afloat as long as you can.”

Victor obeyed, gone in a flash, only the echoes of his shouts for assistance below lingering.

“So it's gotten worse,” Brand said. He looked as nauseous as Hawke felt.

Isabela was silent for a minute, and then she slammed her fist against the helm, sudden enough to make Hawke jump back a step. “Shit! Shit! Fucking—fucking fuck!” She bristled with electric fury, a wildness radiating off her.

“We're close to Ostwick,” Brand said, sounding doubtful. “Though we're not likely to meet friendly faces there.”

Isabela gritted her teeth; Hawke would later swear she could hear the grinding of Isabela's jaw even from three paces away. “I'm taking us along the coast,” she said at last, a grim decisiveness to her voice.

“Of the Marches?” Brand sounded almost hopeful, but with the faint trace of resignation suiting a man used to his captain's decisions.

“Of Brandel's Reach. There's a port town near the northern tip of the island—made the mistake of landing there once when I was green.”

Brand frowned. “And we're going to sail right in?”

“No. We're going to dramatically crash on the coast and swim the rest of the way.” She gave Brand a withering glance that silenced him before he could summon up his best I-hope-you're-joking laugh. “We'll try to find a cove where we'll be hidden. And then we can make repairs and send a group in to town to get any supplies we might need.”

Brand ran a hand through his sun-streaked mop, staring at her for a long moment before he nodded. “I'll go down and tell the crew not to panic when we go hurtling into the rocks.”

“Ideally, there won't be any hurtling.” Isabela waved a hand. “Go. And maybe start with the good news that we're losing the Orlesians before you bring up the impending wreck.”

Brand saluted, and then he jogged away. Hawke stood there for a moment, the deck trembling like a dying animal beneath her, her eyes trained on the Orlesian ships slipping further into the background. She had a bad feeling that this wouldn't be the last they saw of the Orlesians—but at any rate, it wasn't the first concern on her mind right now.

“Hawke,” Isabela said, her tone artificially bright, “I need you to do me a favor and come next to me again.”

Hawke stepped close, wrapping her arms around Isabela and leaning down to rest her chin on her shoulder. “Miss me?”

“Worried you'll drown if you aren't holding on next time we hit something.”

“Ha,” Hawke said. It came out sounding only slightly strangled. They emerged from the channel, pushed along by a rising wind, but conditions weren't any better than before—the cliffs of the island towered above them, and their ship edged closer with every second. “You know what you're doing, right?”

“Never,” Isabela said. She still sounded almost optimistic, which was an impressive feat given the way the ship seemed to sink lower in the water every second. “I'll let you know when to panic, alright?”

Hawke tilted her head to kiss the back of Isabela's neck, salty with seaspray. She lingered there, her nose buried in the loose curls at the nape of her neck. “If we tragically die, die knowing that I am very fond of you.”

“If we tragically die, I'll kill you.” A minute of silence passed—but for the wind whipping in the sails and the waves crashing against the ship, higher each time—and then Isabela spoke again, softer, just loud enough for Hawke to hear: “You know I'm fond of you, too. But I'm not planning on dying.”

It felt like an eternity before hope came—but when it came, it came with a triumphant, choked shout. A cove: all but hidden against the foliage of the cliffs, with a wide patch of sand. Just right for crashing a ship. Isabela's shout, half a cry, was enough to bring a handful of men scrambling to the deck. Everything happened at once before anyone had enough time to do anything other than grab at ropes: the ship turned, seemed to sink even deeper than before—scraping across the rocks of the coast with a shriek—and ground to a halt.

“Over!” Brand shouted, and the men followed him, each with a rope in hand, lashed to the hooks on the front where there was space and to the rails and the masts where there was not. They hauled the ship the last several yards onto the shore, grunting and gasping, their impossible task aided by the high waves.

“We're safe,” Hawke murmured against Isabela, her voice shaking ever-so-slightly. Isabela had gone almost limp in her arms; Hawke tightened her grip around her waist, holding her steadily upright. “Relatively, I mean. We're not in the middle of the ocean. You did it.”

“It Was Nice Knowing You Cove,” Isabela said. Slowly, she released the wheel, and turned to meet Hawke's eyes. She gave her the faintest of wry smiles. “That was your awful joke, wasn't it? Well, here we are.”

“Just in time for a storm,” Hawke said. She cast her gaze up to the slate-grey skies above them, then back to Isabela. It was too hard to look away from her for very long. “What's next, Captain?”

“We evaluate the damage.” Isabela leaned back against the wheel and tugged Hawke closer with one hand on her tunic. “And then I say you and I sharpen our blades and take a nice stroll into town.”

“Everything I've ever wanted.” Hawke said it like a joke, but when she leaned in to kiss Isabela—salt on their lips, each aflush with exuberant relief, their ship still in one piece beneath them—it wasn't so far from the truth.

 


	2. ii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh gosh i meant to have this posted so much sooner but have had such a week, i am a terrible updater ;_; thank you so much for the comments and kudos so far! each one really is so hugely appreciated and i would reply to every single one if i didn't think that might make me insufferable. <3

_ii._

The _Encanto_ sat on the grey sand of Brandel's Reach like a beached corpse, the jagged gash on the prow almost gruesome, flashes of lightning turning the rigging skeletal. It was an ugly sight made uglier by the storm that had descended on them in their first moments on land. But it still beat shackles and time in an Orlesian prison, Hawke thought. Really not so bad, all things considered. Not perfect. But she'd had worse afternoons.

Hawke hung back from the water's edge, perched on a cluster of slick stones. Most of the crew milled about aimlessly, talking and griping and cursing their luck, but Hawke's gaze was steady. She watched the rain-blurred silhouettes of Isabela and Landen as the two surveyed the damage, one with the certain confidence of an experienced carpenter and the other with the nervous energy of a woman who'd lost all the ships she could stand to lose in one lifetime. At last, after what seemed an eternity, Isabela's shoulders sagged in unmistakable relief; all the breath left Hawke's lungs in an exhalation to match.

When Isabela turned back from the ship to the men on the shore, everyone else went quiet. The crew huddled together around her, all looking glum and sodden; Hawke stood at the fringe of the clustered men, meeting Isabela's gaze over their heads to exchange the briefest of smiles. If Isabela believed they could make it out in one piece, Hawke wouldn't waste another minute on worry.

Isabela cut an impressive figure even in the downpour—even with her beloved captain's hat hung up to dry off inside the hold, replaced with the old blue scarf Hawke adored. She stepped onto a cast-off crate to raise her just above the men's heads. She straightened her shoulders and cupped her hands around her mouth, straining to be heard over the intermittent peals of thunder: “We'll be ship-shape before you know it! No serious damage, nothing we can't fix with enough oakum and pitch! We'll need some lumber, some nails, and then we'll be in Antiva in a blink—and you'll get your coin!”

One man whooped and the rest of the crew lifted their voices to join him in a cheer. Antiva sounded a far cry better than this dirty little sliver of beach. When Isabela laughed—inaudible over the cheering, but impossible to miss the way it seemed to set the whole cove alight—Hawke felt as safe and secure as she ever had. (The damage was somewhere between it-could-be-worse and not _-that_ -much-worse, Isabela would later admit to her, but in that moment, Hawke wouldn't have traded their collective optimism away for the truth.)

Isabela clapped her hands to call their attention back to her, and after one last rumble, the men went quiet again. “There's a little settlement north of here where we can get supplies for repair. Most of you will stay here and answer to Brand, but I'm going into town and taking three of you with me.” Her eyes skimmed over the gathered masses. “Suma, Cudjo, Hawke. You're with me.”

There was a restless shifting among the gathered crew; Isabela drew herself up at that and settled her hands on her hips.

“Any questions?” she demanded, more a warning than an inquiry.

“Aye! How come you get a warm bed and a hot meal and we sit here waiting for our balls to rot off?” The petulant voice that piped up belonged to Victor. The lad looked even smaller than usual between two older men, his shock of black hair plastered to his forehead and his chin jutting out, childishly sullen. His eyes flitted to Hawke and then back to Isabela, long enough for Hawke to catch a hint of resentment in his stare.

Isabela eyed him with a mixture of irritation and fondness that Hawke had received herself a time or two. “If you want to take your chances with the storm and the scum on this rock, start walking. Or you can stay here, board the ship, and get out of the rain. That's your choice. Odds are your balls won't rot off overnight.”

A few chuckles broke out at that. Victor scowled at his feet. The crew quieted again until Brand started pushing through them, clapping and shouting: “Get a move on! You three there, you're on watch on deck—rest of you, we're gettin' out of this storm!” Slowly, the men dispersed, disappearing onto the ship until only Hawke, Isabela, and the two men Isabela had selected stood apart from the ship.

Cudjo and Sumakwel, the two crewmen, made for an intimidating pair. Both towered over even Hawke; Sumakwel was the broader of the two, big-shouldered and barrel-chested, but Cudjo wasn't much leaner. Sumakwel carried an intricately carved double-tipped sword half as tall as he was and a forearm's-length ironwood stick that Hawke had seen him break more than a few bones with. Cudjo liked to fight with his hands, but he carried a broad-bladed cutlass for good measure and kept a machete in his belt with a toothed edge that made Hawke a little nervous just to think about. They made for good companions into unfamiliar territory, Hawke thought. Not bad company either. Sumakwel had warm, downturned eyes, always crinkled at the corners like he was smiling at some private joke. He'd been with Isabela nearly as long as Brand and was a steady friend. Cudjo was a newer addition to their crew and less ready with a laugh, but Hawke liked his balance of dark intensity and dry wit.

She touched the hilt of her own blade just a little nervously. She missed the big, ugly greatsword she'd been using forever—an ungainly two-handed thing that sent half her opponents running before she so much as drew it. But it was gone now, somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, too bulky to be any use for life at sea. Isabela had spent hours and hours helping Hawke train with the short, curved-edged sword she carried in its place, but she wasn't comfortable with it yet. Too much technique—not enough momentum and roaring. She was glad for the men by her side who knew exactly what they were doing. And especially glad for Isabela, the only fighter Hawke ever really wanted watching her back.

“The town shouldn't be more than a few hours north,” Isabela informed them. A smile quirked across her lips at Cudjo's displeased grunt. “So we'd better start walking.”

The hike seemed to last a lifetime. The rain worsened as the evening went on; though they were pushing their way through heavy brush with trees towering above them, the foliage did little to prevent the deluge from finding them. Hawke found herself pushing her sopping bangs out of her eyes every third second, and she couldn't start to speak without the water streaming off her face right into her mouth. Isabela looked the grimmest, curls and optimism flattened by the rain, stalking along with the tragic wounded dignity of a bathed cat.

Only Sumakwel seemed unbothered by the storm—or at least only he failed to voice his complaints. His bald head glistening in the rain bobbed ahead of them like a beacon as he pushed a path through the brush, Cudjo at his side to hack away any stubborn foliage that Suma couldn't banish with his bulk. He looked back, giving Isabela a curious look. “What did you make of the complaints on the beach?”

“From Victor? I thought I'd have to box his good ear for a minute there, the little shit.” Isabela pursed her lips, looking like she was still considering the option. She liked the boy—she'd told Hawke more than once that she saw some of herself in him—but it wasn't the first time they'd clashed.

Cudjo and Suma exchanged a look. They were each solidly middle-aged, too experienced and too trusted to need to waste much time with a polite dance of yes-Captain-no-Captain. “Vic thinks you give Hawke special treatment,” Cudjo said.

“This _does_ feel like special treatment,” Hawke agreed, an inch deep in mud and a new branch whipping across her cheeks with each step. “I've never felt more special, really.”

Isabela scoffed. “It's not special treatment. I'm used to fighting alongside Hawke and want her by me in a scrape.”

“Aye, or in your bed,” Cudjo said, with a look that made Isabela bristle.

Sumakwel intervened: “So Victor sees it, that is.”

“He'd better start to see it differently if he wants to keep working for me. And that goes for all of you.” Isabela looked thoroughly unamused.

Cudjo grunted, but after a moment, he echoed Suma's “aye, Captain”—though not with the same convincing cheer. “You'd better keep an ear open for what he's saying, that's all,” he added. “Vic's the kind of ass who might start to believe himself.”

“Leave me behind to nap next time and bring him to track down your mystery town in the middle of nowhere,” Hawke suggested. She took another squelching step forward.

“You could turn back now,” Isabela said. Hawke pulled a face at her and got rewarded with a mouthful of rainwater.

Cudjo typically wore his locks pulled back in a leather band, but he grimaced up at the sky and shook them loose now, spraying them all with rain—though the downpour was too heavy for it to matter. “The brush is clearing. There better be _something_ once we're out of this shit.”

“Don't count on it,” Isabela muttered.

But her pessimism was misplaced. When they at last stepped beyond the tree-cover, they looked down from a crest to spy the sea, a small cove, and a village nestled right by the shore beneath them. The grey sky had turned slate-dark with the encroaching night and the blazing lights among the buildings below were a welcome sight.

“We'll split up,” Isabela decided. “Hawke and I will look around, get an idea of where we can get supplies in the morning without getting robbed blind. You two find us warm beds for cheap.”

“I thought you'd been here before,” Hawke said, frowning. Bed-duty sounded like the better job.

Isabela crinkled her nose. “It's been more than fifteen summers since then. Besides, I spent my visit trying not to get killed in the streets, not drawing a map for my future reference.”

“A fine plan,” Sumakwel said. He patted the ironwood stick at his side. “We shall negotiate for a fair price.”

The men moved eastward, planning to enter the village from the other side; better not to enter in one party and raise suspicions unnecessarily, Cudjo had proposed, and the others had agreed readily. Hawke, who had never been hailed for her skills in _not_ raising suspicions, was less interested in that reasoning than in a chance to be alone—wholly alone, without the slightest risk of interruption from the crew or related chaos—with Isabela for the first time since Orlais. As they took their first steps in the village, Hawke reached out to capture Isabela's hand in hers.

“Nice night for a walk,” she teased.

Isabela directed a sidelong glance at Hawke, smiling. “How about a drink before we start our hunt, sweet thing? I hear the familiar sound of a terrible bar.”

“You know the way to my heart.” Hawke grinned. “After you.”

The tavern was impossible to miss—the sounds of shouting, music, and clinking glass could be heard from one end of the little town to the other. No one heard the door swing open, and no one looked up to see two bedraggled, rain-soaked women making their way across the room. The rush of heat and noise as soon as they stepped into the tavern might have been overwhelming if Hawke hadn't been so well-trained in the art of drinking in shitholes. There was a dirty, musky smell to the room—smoke and sweat and sour-piss ale. Just like being back in Ferelden, Hawke thought.

Isabela took the lead, shoving herself between two men up at the bar with the well-practiced snarl she reserved for life-or-death fights and crowded bars. “Drinks over here,” she shouted, flashing two fingers at the barkeep, who seemed content to ignore her.

Hawke lingered a step behind, taking in the sights and smells of the tavern. It was a rough crowd, but no rougher than the crowds she was used to, at least not at first glance. She had a habit of trying to memorize as many faces as she could when she entered a room—the side-effect of walking into an awful lot of rooms where someone might be in the mood to murder her. It was a new affectation, something she'd never worried about back in Kirkwall. There'd been plenty of people in Kirkwall who hadn't been so fond of her, of course. But Kirkwall was... _Kirkwall._ Somewhere along the way, it had turned into her home. Then the whole world went mad.

She looked up to spy Isabela in what appeared to be a good-natured shouting match with the barkeep and couldn't help but smile at the sight: her gorgeous, fierce pirate captain soaked from head to toe with mud splattered up to her knees, still seizing any opportunity she could to fight about the price of a mug of ale. She loved Isabela at the helm of her ship, barking orders and saving the day, but there was something about the sight of her in a bar like this one that make Hawke sentimental. The image took her back to Kirkwall, back to the Hanged Man and all the nights Hawke had followed Isabela away from the bar and into her bed—and all the mornings Isabela had let her stay. Sometimes, just sometimes, Hawke woke up at sea and found herself missing that: Waking up early just to waste the day in bed, strong tea and burnt toast, lazy kisses until they both forgot how to do anything but laugh. Adventure and excitement, that was all well and good, but—

A hand on her shoulder jerked her out of her daydreams. She twisted around to find herself staring up at a scrawny bald fellow with a ring in his nose and a handful of teeth missing from his grin. “You want some company?”

“I'm here with someone.” Hawke didn't bother with a polite smile; she knew better with this sort. But when she turned away from him, he jerked her back by the shoulder again. This time, she noticed a friend at his side, this one with a mop of greasy dark hair and a nose that took up half his face. In less than an instant, she had it all mapped out in her head: blow below the waist to this one, step around that one, back of the knees, out the side door to the left. Habits die hard. She took a breath and raised a brow. “Can I help you?”

“You don't got to be rude.” The bald one gave her his toothless grin again, and his companion gave her a matching leer. “We're just trying to be friends, alright?”

“Mm, sorry, I have enough friends already to keep me busy.” Hawke itched to look over her shoulder and see if Isabela was still at the bar or perhaps on her way back over. But she kept her stare focused on the duo in front of her. Neither looked like trouble; both looked drunk, but there was no sign of recognition in their eyes, no indication that they were looking to do anything other than amuse themselves.

But it was hard to judge a drunk accurately, and on cue, a darkness flashed through his eyes—the swiftly-changing temper of a man soaked in ale. He took a step forward and jabbed a finger towards her. His voice dropped, oily charm replaced with a threatening growl. “You've got a pretty face, girlie. Don't make me break it.”

“If you're trying to charm me, it's working.” Hawke flashed him a bright smile, but it did little to dispel the new look in his eyes. He hardly seemed to hear her.

His friend, oblivious to any rising tensions, scratched his red, bulbous nose. “She ain't that pretty, mate. Little tits.”

That caught Hawke's attention. She gave him her best haughty sniff. “Well, now you're just being rude for the sake of being rude.”

“I didn't say her tits was pretty, I said her face was.”

“Well, I said it ain't. An' she's too tall.”

“You're too fackin' short, you arse!”

“I like my women all womanly, that's it!”

The bald one opened his mouth with some vulgar comeback, and then he looked away from his friend and back at Hawke just when she thought they might have forgotten her altogether. He paused. “Hey, she look familiar to you?”

That was the line Hawke was watching out for. “As fun as this has been so far, I think I ought to leave.” She jerked a finger over her shoulder and took a step back. The wall met her; the men stepped closer.

“You headin' somewhere?” the bald one asked. He leaned in, face close enough to hers for her to smell his sour breath. “I think you _do_ look familiar.”

That was enough of that, she decided. “Honestly,” Hawke said, “I'd hate to kill you and make a terrible mess, so maybe you could just—fuck off or something.”

She took a step forward, pushing him back hard enough for him to fall against his friend, but his friend pushed him back upright and the momentum carried him faster than Hawke expected. He swung, she ducked, he swung again—and connected. There was a sharp crack and a hot spurt of blood. Hawke staggered backwards, choking and coughing.

She wiped at her face, drawing her hand back wet, and lunged forward. Something jerked her back; it took a second for the touch to register, Isabela's calloused fingers and the cool metal of her rings against Hawke's arm as she dragged her away.

“Sorry!” Isabela shouted at no one in particular. “She's drunk! Terribly drunk!”

Hawke tried to pull away, her gaze still fixed on the swaying man with her blood on his knuckles, but Isabela yanked harder and shoved her against the side door. They stumbled out of the heat of the tavern and into the cold dampness of a back alley. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, with puddles to their ankles to prove the storm had been here.

Staggering away, Hawke clutched at her nose with one hand and grasped at Isabela with the other. She could feel blood seeping around her hand, hot and sticky; her nose felt more than a little crooked. “Let me back in,” she gasped. “I have to—I have to finish it.”

“Absolutely not,” Isabela snapped. She grabbed Hawke by the wrist, yanking her further into the alley and away from the tavern. “You can't pick a fight here!”

“I can! I just did!”

“You _shouldn't_ pick a fight here!” Isabela shoved her up against the stone wall across from the door and grabbed her by the shoulders. “We're trying to be inconspicuous! I know you've never heard that word in your life, but—”

“I am being inconspicuous!”

“You're not! You're not even trying! Everywhere we go, you act like everything is just like it was before—before everything! Like it's all a game!”

Then Hawke saw it: Fear glinted in Isabela's eyes somewhere behind the anger. The rush of a fight faded; Hawke frowned and ducked her head. “I didn't start it, alright? I was just standing there. He was drunk and belligerent and won't remember anything by tomorrow.” After a pause, she spoke again: “I'm sorry I got into it. And I'm especially sorry I got into it before we got a drink.”

Isabela stared at her for a long moment and then she sighed. She released Hawke's shoulders and cradled her cheek instead, gentle. They'd had this argument before, worse and worse after every close call. Hawke hadn't understood at first—still didn't quite understand. It wasn't as if Isabela had ever been one to turn away from trouble or back out of a barfight, even now. But things were different for Hawke, Isabela told her repeatedly. That was the part Hawke was having trouble adjusting to: the difference.

When Isabela spoke again, her voice was softer. “You're still bleeding. Here, remove your hand.” She undid the red band from about her bicep, the ragged little handkerchief with the Amell crest that Isabela had claimed from her so many years ago in Kirkwall. She touched Hawke's nose carefully, shaking her head. “It's broken again, you goose.”

“I could have told you that.” Hawke winced as Isabela wound the band about her head. “I have a very punchable face.”

A smile tugged at Isabela's lips. “I know. I like it, though. Hold still while I snap your nose back into place.”

Hawke yanked away from her hand, cracked her head against the wall, and shouted in double dismay. “No! No! All you did last time was make it worse! I'm not letting you—”

“Shush.” Isabela's face changed; when Hawke tried to speak again, Isabela covered her mouth with one hand. She stared down the darkened alley, her brow furrowed. “Did you hear that?”

“Heaf mumph?”

Isabela removed her hand. “What?”

“Hear what?”

“Crying.” Isabela wiped her hand on her tunic, leaving behind a streak of blood, and shook her head. “I could've sworn I heard a child crying. Close. But I don't hear a thing now.”

“There wouldn't be a child out in this—”

Isabela cut her off with a sharp _tss._ “There it is again. Do you hear it?”

Hawke heard the sound this time, a wail that lasted just until a distant rumble of thunder drowned out the noise. It was unmistakably the cry of a child and it was coming from somewhere nearby. But before she could say anything, Isabela grabbed at her hand—lacing their fingers together—and set off down the alley.

The cobblestones were slick beneath their feet, it was all but impossible to see in the dank darkness, and Hawke had to keep one hand on the band wrapped around her head to keep it from slipping off. It wasn't exactly how she'd imagined the evening going. She focused on Isabela's hand, warm in hers, and tried to forget all the rest.

“I'm sure it's nothing,” Hawke tried. Isabela turned to give her a disbelieving look.

“Right. Because this is such a lovely town.”

It was a fair point. There was something about the town—something dark hanging over it, the sort of darkness that couldn't quite fit into words. The cry of a child was so out of place as to almost be unrecognizable. Yet it was Isabela's insistence on the search, her sharp-eyed intensity, that was almost as startling to Hawke as the noise itself. If there was some cause, a story or a memory, Hawke hadn't heard it yet.

Isabela saw the child first. She stumbled to a stop, Hawke bumping into her from behind.

“Oh-h-h,” Isabela breathed, soft, and then Hawke saw.

The little girl, bare and trembling in the drizzle, sat on a box like she'd been momentarily set down and forgotten. She looked Rivaini, at least to Hawke's eyes—skin the same shade as Isabela's, a head full of curls that shone black in the dim light—and no more than a summer old, perhaps closer to half that. Hardly more than an infant, Hawke would have thought if the girl hadn't been sitting upright and staring at them with big, dark eyes. She was just small. _Tiny_ , even, too little. The sight was so startling, so impossible, that it took a long, silent minute for the horror to sink in. But even in that first moment, Hawke knew: No one leaves a child somewhere like that, alone and bare in the rain, and plans to come back for them. A chill went down her spine at the scene they'd somehow stumbled into.

Isabela looked at Hawke with a nervous light in her eyes, and every memory of all the times Isabela had told her about being _terrible with children, just awful really_ flashed through Hawke's mind. “Do something, Hawke,” Isabela said, a pleading note to her voice.

“Do what? I don't—”

“Pick her up! We can't leave her sitting out like this, not here. We have to find where she belongs.”

Hawke took a step towards the girl, who began to wail again as soon as Hawke awkwardly lifted her from the crate. She'd been known to spend hours kicking a ball and laughing in the streets with the refugee children in Kirkwall who'd always flocked to her, but babies were a different question entirely. Hawke couldn't remember the last time she held a baby—the last time she was around a baby at all, really. There were Aveline's twins, of course, but they'd been born right in the middle of everything, when Hawke had been busy staying far away from Kirkwall, and the timing had never been right to sneak back in to meet the boys. They remained abstract, two red-haired sketches Varric had scrawled in a letter and a collection of too-brief anecdotes in Aveline's missives that always left Hawke's heart twisted up and aching. And she'd only been a child herself when Beth and Carver were this size. Now, here—

“You're doing it all wrong,” Isabela snapped. She was tense with nerves, bouncing on her heels, like they faced down an eight-foot Qunari and not a squirming, sniffling infant. She hung a step away from Hawke and the girl. “Hold her _against_ you, hold her head up.”

Hawke obeyed, her dignity just a little injured from the reprimand, but the whimpers and ragged cries didn't slow even when she readjusted the girl in her arms. The little body was cold to the touch and painfully thin. “Since when are you an expert on holding children?”

“My mother posed as a midwife briefly, before her thieving got her chased out of town and on to the next identity. I helped.” She gritted her teeth and shook her head like she could forcibly dispel the memory. “That's not the point. Just—you're not doing it right—oh, just let me have her.”

Surprised at the request, Hawke obeyed, maneuvering the crying child into Isabela's waiting arms. She was used to the dismissive glances Isabela tended to aim at children, always somewhere between disinterest and dislike. More than once, Hawke had crouched in the Kirkwall streets to laugh and chatter with a child only to look up and see Isabela's lips pursed in apparent irritation. But Isabela lifted this girl like she knew precisely what she was doing and held the child close to her body.

“Don't cry, little sparrow,” Isabela said, sounding as firm as she might lecturing one of her crew. With the girl in her arms, the tension from an instant before was gone. “What does that accomplish? We'll get you taken care of.”

To Hawke's utter disbelief, the crying stopped. The child stared up with wide, watery eyes the same rich amber as Isabela's. The sight was enough to make Hawke forget all about her aching nose and the last drops of rain still coming down. For a moment, as she took in the image of Isabela cradling this child who could pass for her own, Hawke completely lost track of every single detail about where they were and what they were doing.

The girl stared solemnly for a long moment, and then she reached up, one tiny hand pressing to Isabela's cheek. “Ba _,_ ” she warbled. “A-mi.”

“ _Mami,_ ” Isabela said, leaning away from the clutching hand when it got too close to the rings in her ears, “yes. We'll find your mother.”

“Mi,” the girl repeated. She poked at Isabela's nose and lips, clumsy and aimless, little fingers returning again and again to the gold stud under Isabela's lips.

“Maybe she thinks you look like her mother,” Hawke said. They looked a pair, Isabela and the girl in her arms. Isabela visibly blanched.

Some of the frantic edge returned to Isabela's eyes and the steely certainty dropped out of her voice. “I don't think she's old enough to know what she's saying, is she? She isn't. We need to get out of this rain and try to find—”

“Captain?”

Hawke and Isabela both turned to see Sumakwel and Cudjo at the mouth of the alley. Suma beamed, amusement in his eyes; Cudjo, whose rumble of a voice had interrupted them, merely looked bewildered.

“We heard about a fight,” Sumakwel said, shaking his head. “And although we assumed it involved the two of you...”

Cudjo finished for him, voice droll: “We didn't think you'd stolen a baby. And I didn't think you would've lost the fight, Champion.” He cracked the toothiest grin Hawke had ever seen from him.

“You're making fun of me, I think,” Hawke said, pulling a face and reaching up to touch the band around her face.

“I am,” Cudjo agreed cheerfully.

“Come, come,” Sumakwel said, with his familiar, warm smile. He stepped close to peer at the child in Isabela's arms with remarkable tenderness for a man built like a battering ram with a penchant for cracking skulls. But that was Suma—the same fellow who sat on the deck and passed out his rations to every seagull lucky enough to find him. “We must get all of you out of the rain.”

“Aye, you two look like shit,” Cudjo said, jerking his chin at Isabela and Hawke. “We got two rooms at the inn across town. You can explain the babe on the way.”

“She was just sitting here,” Isabela said. She glanced down at the child in her arms and then back up, standing frozen in one spot. “We have to find something to do with her.”

“So we will,” Sumakwel promised. He settled one immense hand on Isabela's shoulder, gently nudging her forward through the alley—stepping into the role of friend, not crewman. There weren't many men on the crew who would put a hand on Isabela so easily, just like there weren't many men to whom Isabela would show the slightest bit of uncertainty. Suma was one, and at his gentle insistence, she finally relented and began to follow Cudjo out of the alley. “We shall ask at the inn, but we cannot wait in this spot all night for the answer to arrive, Captain,” he continued.

“And if someone found us here, the poor Champion's face couldn't bear another hit,” Cudjo added. To Hawke's dismay, that earned a laugh barely disguised as a snort from Isabela, and even Sumakwel's mouth twitched suspiciously.

“I liked you better when you weren't trying to be funny,” Hawke informed him. Again he grinned.

“Take the child,” Isabela said suddenly, turning to Hawke. “I don't want to carry her, alright?” she added, defensive before Hawke could even open her mouth to agree.

The moment Hawke lifted the girl out of Isabela's arms, she began to wail again, reaching out towards Isabela as Hawke drew her away. When Hawke tried to hold her like Isabela did, the crying settled down into a whimper. That was going to have to be good enough for now, Hawke decided.

“How far to the inn?”

“A minute, perhaps two,” Suma answered.

Cudjo winked. “We won't let you bleed out in the street.”

“Or drown in the rain,” Isabela added, cheer returning to her voice.

“Right, well, it's official! I'm not ever speaking to any of you ever again!” Hawke pinned them each with a glare in turn. But when her eyes landed on Isabela, she was met with a fond smile. Isabela moved a step closer to her, close enough for their bodies to brush, and settled one hand soft on the small of her back.

The girl, so drowsy that she could nearly pass for asleep now, felt as heavy as a sack of bricks; the rain had gradually faded into a miserable humid stickiness that was worse than the drizzle; and Hawke's whole body—not to mention her nose—ached from a day spent on the run. When at last the inn appeared in front of them, Hawke was as grateful for a bed as she'd ever been in her life. And then she paused. “The Hoary Beaver,” she read off the sign dangling in the front.

Isabela almost choked. “No. _No._ ”

They exchanged a glance. Isabela's eyes were alight, her lips were parted in the bemused smile Hawke loved so much that meant she couldn't quite decide on which dirty joke would be just right. And then they both erupted in laughter—explosive, ecstatic, bone-deep laughter. It drowned out the men's embarrassed throat-clearing, bounced off the cobblestones and the walls, and settled warm and holy right in the center of Hawke's chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update 10/7: ive been swamped at work and haven't had the time to do anything but that, but i promise an update will be done as soon as humanly possible T.T thank you everyone for comments, kudos, and your patience! <3


	3. iii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gvhshdf i'm so embarrassed by how long it took me to get this up! i'm a bit swamped with other things but i promise updates will always show up eventually. thank you everyone for all the positive feedback so far, it's lovely and so are you <3

The door of the inn swung open to reveal a large, bright common-room with a table running the length of it and a crackling fire blazing at the other end. A few men sat at the table, dinner plates and brimming mugs in front of them, their deep laughter echoing off the beams above. It bore no resemblance to the chaotic tavern down the road—an alternative, perhaps, for those who preferred to drink and sleep without getting stabbed. Exactly what Hawke liked in an inn.

Hawke took one eager step towards the entrance, but Cudjo stepped in front of her before she could make it inside. He spoke in a low warning of a whisper: “No talking, no starting any trouble. Go right for the stairs and try to look inconspicuous.”

Isabela lifted her brows at Hawke. “I told you. Inconspicuous.”

“You too,” Cudjo added, aiming an admonishing finger at Isabela. “Suma, get our drowned captain and battered Champion to their room.”

“Feel free to stop calling me that any time, any time at all,” Hawke said, voice bright with affected cheer. If she never heard the word _Champion_ again, she'd be happy. But as usual, of course, no one paid her any attention—no one but the child she held, who was whimpering and grabbing at the straps on Hawke's leather breastplate. Hawke could hardly get over the fact that, somehow, she'd ended up in the middle of nowhere with this warm little bundle in her arms. Never a dull moment, she thought. Not a single one.

Cudjo turned and led them into the inn, his bulk keeping them all but hidden until the foot of the stairs, where he remained. Sumakwel ushered them up and away from the warmth of the main room into a dark, narrow hallway and then, at last, into a modest room. Small bed, fireplace, low ceilings, and cracks running down the windowless walls—all in all, it exceeded Hawke's wildest dreams. All her breath left her in a pleased exhalation as she stepped into the cramped little sanctuary.

“We made it,” she declared, doing a slow spin about to take it in. She looked down at the girl in her arms, at her big dark eyes and her little nose and velvet curls, and tried to keep her smile reserved and reasonable. “Our kingdom for the night.”

“I'll go down and talk to the innkeeper about the girl,” Isabela said, more a statement than an offer. But Sumakwel remained in the doorway, blocking it off.

“Stay here, light a fire, and dry your wet clothes. I will draw less attention than you if I ask, and then Cudjo and I shall bring up a hot dinner.”

“But—”

“No buts. Shall I bring ale?” His eyes twinkled with a light that said he would brook no argument. “We sampled the wares before chasing you down. Not a bad brew.”

Isabela sighed. For once, she looked too tired to insist on doing every last thing herself. “Fine. Yes. Bring plenty.”

Suma saluted and backed out of the door. It clicked shut behind him, leaving Hawke and Isabela alone with scattered minds and an unexpected guest. All the day's exhaustion—all the weariness that had been slowly creeping up all evening—crashed into Hawke at once; she let out a groan that was just a touch more dramatic than necessary.

“I've never been so relieved to be stranded in the middle of nowhere,” she declared. It was absolute truth.

Isabela began to undress, fighting with the rain-soaked boots that stubbornly clung to her legs. “Light the fire, won't you, sweet thing?”

“What do I do with—” Hawke looked down at the little fingers splayed on her chest, no name attached to them. “—her?”

“Just set her down.” Isabela waved a hand vaguely before dropping into a seat on the floor, using two hands and one foot now to try and push off a boot. Her fierce, anxious intensity in the alley—whatever instinct had sent them chasing a distant cry in the rain—seemed abetted by their warm chamber. Or, Hawke thought, at the very least Isabela had tamped it down.

Hawke carefully set the girl on the floor, halfway between the fireplace and the bed, and stepped around her towards the hearth.

“Does this make us kidnappers?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder just in time to see Isabela's boot go skidding across the floor.

Isabela laughed. “Kidnappers and pirates. That sounds right, doesn't it?”

“Just something else to add to our list of questionable accomplishments.” Hawke lifted a handful of dried grass and twigs from the top of a basket full of firewood near the hearth, shaped it into a nest on the stone inside, and then reached into the sodden pouch at her hip for her flint.

“We've been accused of worse crimes.” Isabela's other boot flew off, accompanied by a triumphant shout, and disappeared under the bed. “Come help me with my corset when you're done there, I can't get the tie when it's all soaked like this.”

Slowly, Hawke coaxed her first sparks into a little flame and added two logs. The first wave of heat against her face from the fire felt as good as any feeling in the world. She rose and stepped away—awkwardly moving past the still-quiet child on the floor, feeling a bit like the child was some guest she ought to make polite conversation with—and knelt in front of Isabela. She tugged off her gloves with her teeth and dropped them beside her, next to Isabela's.

“Maker,” Hawke grumbled, fumbling with the lacing on the black corset, “this never gets any easier.”

“You never get less terrible at it,” Isabela corrected. She sat up straighter and sucked in a breath. “It shrinks when it's wet, I swear it. I feel like I've been in a vise all night. It's not always so bad.”

At last the ties came undone. Isabela let out a low, content groan, stretching towards the ceiling as Hawke pulled the corset looser until it fell away at last. Her tunic came next; Hawke lifted Isabela's white shift over her head, the sash around her waist falling to the floor with it. Then the buckled armor on her arms, from her shoulder down to her wrist, until Isabela wore nothing but her smallclothes. Hawke soaked in the sight for a long moment before leaning in to kiss her—

And Isabela laughed and leaned back. “I don't think so, sweet thing. You smell like blood and bad decisions. Get cleaned up and give it another try.”

Hawke rocked back on her heels and put on her best pout. “Since when do you mind blood and bad decisions?”

“No questioning captain's orders,” Isabela told her, voice slipping into a commanding tone Hawke hadn't heard since their wild flight from Orlais. It was enough to seize every last bit of Hawke's attention.

Hawke staggered to her weary feet and began to undo the straps of the leather armor that replaced the heavy steel she used to wear in Kirkwall. (“Drowning hazard,” Isabela had told her, appalled, the first time Hawke tried to wear her armor on deck. No amount of protesting held up to that.) She was down to her tunic in nearly a minute and had it halfway over her head when a sudden wail went up.

“Shit,” Isabela muttered. The light faded from her eyes.

Hawke yanked off her tunic and cast a glance down at Isabela. “Did you forget? Because I almost forgot.”

Isabela just groaned in response. She rose, pointedly stepping away from the crying child, and pushed her smallclothes over her hips and down to her ankles. She slid all her clothing closer to the fire, spreading it out on the stones of the hearth, before straightening up and arching her back in a long stretch. Even with the cries in the background, Hawke couldn't resist a moment to let her gaze linger on Isabela's bare body, eyes tracing over every curve. She looked so soft, so tender like this, bare by the fire, and Hawke flashed back to the first night they spent together, the first time she saw Isabela without any sharp edges. She looked different now, all these years later; still gorgeous enough to make Hawke half-dizzy with love and longing.

And then Isabela interrupted her reminiscing: “Well? Aren't you going to do something?”

“Do what? You're the one who made her stop the first time.” Hawke pulled a face, unable to resist a little bit of petulant jealousy at the fact, and worked her wet trousers down to the floor. She kicked her clothing over towards the hearth, a soggy pile next to Isabela's.

“That means it's your turn.”

As if on cue, the cries turned into a steady shrieking. Isabela shot one last glare at Hawke, who shook her head helplessly and took a step away from the scene. With a look of supreme consternation, Isabela intervened.

“Come on, _mi gorrióncita,_ ” she said, heaving the child into the air with a grunt. She stepped towards the warmth of the fire, swaying as she moved. “No more crying. It's not the time or the place.”

Immediately—to Hawke's immense disbelief and slightly less immense envy—the girl quieted. She nestled into Isabela's grasp, skin against skin, warmth against warmth. Not for the first time, the image of the two of them made Hawke's heart tie itself up in knots.

Hawke cleared her throat. “What's that word? The Rivaini one. I haven't heard it.” Isabela had been teaching her bits and pieces of Rivaini for months, but Hawke wasn't the best student; most of her vocabulary still consisted of _I'd like a drink_ and _fuck me, Captain_. That, and a lengthy list of curses.

Isabela bounced the girl in her arms. Her brow was furrowed, and she stared down at the child in what was either a frown or mere frustration. “Little sparrow.”

Hawke smiled in recognition. “You called her that before, in the alley.”

“She looks like a little sparrow, doesn't she? This brown, scrawny little thing with her mouth always open to scream.” Isabela looked up at Hawke and smiled at last, sheepish. “And she looks Rivaini, doesn't she? Maybe it sounds familiar.”

The girl cooed as if in agreement. She grabbed at Isabela's necklace, apparently delighted at the shine of the gold between her little fingers or the clink of the jewelry at her touch. Hawke's heart remained firmly twisted up.

“I thought you hated children,” she said. By some miracle, she managed to keep the pang out of her voice. She _knew_ Isabela didn't care for children; she'd heard her make that claim a hundred times before. Hawke had barely managed to turn the initial sting of those words into the distant ache of resignation. She wasn't ready to rip the wound back open.

“I do. I do. They're loud and smelly and not much else, but that doesn't mean I want to listen to her crying all night.” Isabela didn't quite look like she hated children, not while she swayed by the fire with one hand firm on the girl's back, but her tone was adamant nonetheless. She sounded just as certain as she always had.

Hawke let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. “She's probably hungry, and her linen's soiled. She wouldn't be loud and smelly otherwise.”

“Let me know when you have a solution.” Isabela shook her head. “We've got no food and all our clothes are wet or bloody. Speaking of which—take that off your face, you absolute goose. You look like some tragic naked brigand.”

Hawke grinned despite herself and unwound Isabela's poor tattered handkerchief from around her face. Her nose stung as the fabric pulled loose, a reminder of a fight she still wished she'd been able to finish. She wiped off the handkerchief as best she could and let it drift to the floor by the rest of their drying clothes. “Well, you look like a thundercloud.”

Isabela looked suddenly morose at the claim—and a good deal like a thundercloud, with her hair explosively frizzy from the rain. “Don't remind me.”

“Do you want me to take a turn holding her?”

Isabela shrugged. She looked back down at the small bundle in her arms. “The men will be back any minute now to take her away and drop her off wherever she belongs. I can suffer through a minute of this.”

“Do we really want to give her back to someone who left her behind a bar in the rain?”

Isabela narrowed her eyes, looking suspicious. “What else would we possibly do?”

A knock at the door interrupted them. “It's us,” came Suma's familiar deep voice. “With food, dry clothes, and information. Are you decent?”

Isabela glanced at their soggy clothes on the floor and back up at Hawke with an amused lift of her brows. Hawke shrugged, and Isabela called out: “Hawke's decent, I'm stunning, and we're both naked. Come in and try not to stare too much.”

The door swung open and the two men backed into the room, each with a tray in their hands. Suma set his down on the bed before he straightened up to smile at them, thoroughly unconcerned with anything but the child.

“Oh,” he declared, clapping his hands together, “hello again, little one.”

“Don't tease Isabela for her height. She's sensitive,” Hawke said. The joke earned her only the most cursory of scowls. She eyed the tray of food—brown crusty bread, wedges of crumbling cheese, two bowls of steaming stew smelling of fish and dotted with orange carrots and creamy potatoes—and swallowed hard. She felt certain that it must have been at least several thousand years since she last ate. At least that long.

Cudjo set his tray down on the small end table, keeping his gaze carefully averted from both of them. He dropped a shapeless mass of sackcloth onto the bed. “Here,” he grunted. “We talked our way into some dry clothes.”

Isabela pursed her lips. “How fashionable.”

Hawke took the cloth, separating it to reveal two plain shifts, each sized more appropriately for one of the men. She tossed one back to the bed, awaiting Isabela, and pulled the other over her own head. “Can't remember the last time I wore a dress.”

Isabela grinned. “I do. That fancy party you couldn't get out of. And I came in through the window and dragged you into Lady Whatshername's chambers and—”

Suma coughed politely, ending the story just in time. Isabela passed him the girl, to his apparent delight, and reached for the matching shift. It came halfway down her calves, looking more than a little ridiculous; Hawke turned a snort of laughter into a cough, but it wasn't convincing enough to prevent a just-a-bit-fond glare from Isabela.

Cudjo lifted a mug of ale from his tray and took a long swig. “I'm glad the babe's quiet. We're fucked if it starts howling.”

“She,” Isabela said, almost absently. “Well, did you find out where she comes from?”

Sumakwel and Cudjo exchanged glances. Suma spoke first. “We should eat our dinner first and talk after. There's milk for the babe and stew for you both, Captain.”

“Why?” Isabela demanded. She looked between them; neither looked back at her. “If there's somewhere we can drop her off, I want to do that now. She belongs with someone other than us.”

Cudjo sighed. “Shit, if we _had_ somewhere, we'd do it.” A pause. “Captain.”

Suma took over: “The innkeep is a talkative man. When I told him I had heard a crying babe, he was happy to explain.” He looked at Cudjo.

Cudjo sighed again, heavier this time, and continued. “He heard talk of a woman arriving in town with a babe in arms recently. Some starved Rivaini girl, begging for handouts and passage south, dressed in rags—you get the picture.”

Hawke glanced sideways at Isabela; she looked stiff and intense, somehow still the picture of fierce dignity even with bare feet and wild hair. Something dark danced in her eyes. “No one helped her, I suppose,” Isabela said.

“Right.” Cudjo rubbed at the grey stubble on his jaw. “It's a rough little shithole we've found here. Girl's body turned up before we got here this evening, our man downstairs said. Went begging at the tavern and pissed off the wrong crowd.”

Isabela's jaw worked silently for a minute. “But that might not be who we're looking for,” she said.

The men exchanged another glance. “Perhaps not,” Suma allowed. “The innkeeper believed otherwise, however, Captain.”

“Innkeep said the babe was left outside the tavern last he heard. Nobody here wanted to kill a child, he said.” Cudjo looked like he wanted to spit, his brow heavy with anger, but he seemed to think better of it. “Said the elements would take care of it and our sleep wouldn't be troubled by any strange noises.”

A grim silence settled over the room. Hawke ran her hands through her damp hair, pushing it up on end, and stared at the girl in Suma's arms. She was so small; she almost disappeared in the cradle of his arms. Old enough to sit up, to form her first not-quite-words and wrap her grubby little fingers tight around Isabela's nose and necklace. Young enough to stare blithely as their ragtag band discussed the murder of her mother.

Hawke took a deep breath and tried not to dwell too hard and too long on this ghost of a feeling—the death of a mother at strange hands. The girl couldn't yet be a summer old and here she was, thrust into a world that had already robbed her of all the warmth and compassion that should have been her birthright. Part of her thought that maybe it was better the girl was young: Better to never have the memories of her mother's murder, better to never have the guilt and the confusion and always, always the ache. Another part of her wanted to burn the whole town to the ground.

“So there's no one, then,” she said. Everyone looked at her. “There's no one here for her.”

“Our world can be a cruel one,” Suma said softly. He set the child on the bed, nestled back against the pillows. He patted her head with two large fingers and stepped back.

“We can't do shit about it,” Cudjo said. He took another long swig and wiped at his mouth, one shake of his head punctuating his words.

Before Hawke could object, Isabela touched her arm to interrupt, like she could sense everything crowding Hawke's mind. Pity and dull, directionless anger mingled in her voice. “Let's eat dinner, Hawke. We can figure out what to do over our meal.”

Hawke rubbed at her eyes. “Okay. Okay. What—what do we feed her? I mean, she must be starving. If she's been sitting there all night—”

Her voice shook. Isabela found her hand and gripped it tight.

“She'll be fine with the milk for now,” Isabela said, her voice resolute. “Then tomorrow we'll take care of everything, one way or another.”

“One way or another,” Hawke echoed. Isabela made the impossible sound so simple. She took a steadying breath and nodded. “Are you eating?” she asked the men. Only two bowls of stew sat on the trays.

“We ate downstairs,” Cudjo answered. “We thought we'd leave you alone for the rest of the night, regroup tomorrow.”

It was a fine plan—the only plan, really. When the door closed behind the men, Isabela made her way across the room to sit on the bed, legs crossed and shoulders slumped.

“This is what I hate about traveling with you.” She gave Hawke a tired, affectionate smile. “I get into all sorts of trouble I never would have found otherwise. And not the fun sort of trouble, either.”

Hawke didn't make a point of mentioning all the trouble Isabela was always getting _her_ in, too; she was too hungry to bother with that. She joined Isabela—and their small, silent charge—on the bed and reached for a hunk of bread. It came apart easily in her hands, soft and warm. Her stomach rumbled in relief.

But only a few minutes passed before Hawke set aside her bowl and picked up a greater issue. “So,” she said.

Isabela groaned.

“The girl.”

A grimace. “Right now?”

“Now,” Hawke confirmed. She looked at the girl, who was still watching them with those wide, unnerving eyes, and then back at Isabela. “What do you want to do?”

“We'll take care of her tonight and find something to do with her tomorrow.” Isabela ran a finger along the rim of her mug. “Surely there's somewhere we can leave her. We have our own problems to worry about now.”

Hawke shifted. “Right. You want to leave her here, in the shithole of a town where her mother was killed. And just sail away.”

Isabela narrowed her eyes. “Well, it's not ideal—”

“No, I wouldn't say so.”

“What else can we do, Hawke? She's not our problem.”

“She could be. And you're the one who had us chase her down.”

Isabela exhaled. “ _Hawke_. I knew this was a bad spot, and I didn't want to leave a child alone. Don't read into it.”

“I'm not! I'm only saying—we could take her away from here.” Hawke leaned forward, suddenly enthused by her own idea. “Take her to someone we trust. To someone in Kirkwall, or—anywhere, the Chantry or—something. Not with us. But not here.”

“I don't want to talk about this.” Isabela dropped her spoon back to the tray with a harsh clink. “It's too late and I'm too tired. I can't think about it.”

“I just think we have a responsibility—”

“I have a responsibility to my crew. To you. Those are my priorities right now, Hawke. We'll take care of this tomorrow. That's all I have to say.”

Hawke opened her mouth and closed it again. Something in Isabela's face silenced her rebuttal. Instead she reached across the tray and touched Isabela's knee. “Do you remember,” she said, soft, “back when the only argument we ever had to bother with was 'your place or mine'? Because I liked that.”

Isabela slowly settled her hand over Hawke's. “Well, I think you're purposefully ignoring a few arguments, but—yes. I know what you mean.”

“I'm tired all the time,” Hawke said, shifting her fingers to lace them with Isabela's. She stared down at their hands, tangled up, and swallowed. “I know it's stupid, but—I thought things might have gotten easier by now. You know, slightly less chaos and turmoil.”

Isabela smiled, a little rueful. “And I thought Varric would do a better job spreading the rumors of your untimely demise. That would have helped.”

Hawke laughed. “Yeah, well, I'm sort of relieved that no one believed his version. It made me sound bad.”

“I can't believe anyone doubted it. If there's anyone who'd walk off backwards a cliff into a yawning dragon's mouth—”

“Stop! Don't embarrass me in front of the baby!”

For an instant, Hawke thought it had come out wrong, that she'd gone and crushed the tentative ease between them. Something about _baby—_ about the half-sour taste it left in her mouth, like it didn't belong there. And then Isabela laughed, warm and bright and Hawke's favorite sound in all the world.

“You're doing just fine embarrassing yourself, sweet thing,” Isabela informed her. “If you could see your poor nose right now.”

“Well, if you could see your hair—”

Isabela pelted Hawke with a chunk of cheese, too lightning-fast to dodge: the reflexes of a thief and a cheat (and a practiced expert in tossing food at Hawke across the table). Hawke yelped and grabbed at her shoulder like she'd been shot. When Isabela laughed again, it was enough to light up the whole room.

“Throw another and I'll catch it in my mouth,” Hawke declared, straightening up proudly.

“Alternatively, we could not do that.” Isabela's eyes sparkled with amusement. “We could finish our food like adults.”

“What about—” Hawke hesitated just a second before daring to trample on the mood. “How should we feed her?”

Isabela set down her mug and busied herself ripping off a square of her borrowed tunic. The thin, rough fabric easily tore off in her hands. She handed it to Hawke. “Dip the corner in the milk and see if she'll suck.”

“You have the answer to everything.” Hawke gave her a slight smile, one that widened when Isabela returned it. She scooped the girl up from her spot in the pillows and settled her between her crossed legs instead, supporting the child with her body and a gentle hand. The girl took to the milky cloth right away, grabbing at Hawke's hand above her. With some great effort, Hawke managed to tear her gaze away from the little fingers on her wrist and direct it back at Isabela. “She has a few teeth. Should we try giving her real food?”

“We can try soaking some bread and mashing it up.” Isabela stirred her stew absently, staring at the girl Hawke held. “She's small but not as young as she looks, I don't think. Just half-starved. She's probably never been well-fed for a day in her life.”

Hawke took a piece of bread that Isabela held out and dipped it into the milk. The girl's lips readily parted against the offered bread; Hawke tried not to get too caught up in marveling at the golden warmth slowly returning to the child's eyes. “Or well-cared for.”

“Right, well.” Isabela took a breath. “Her mother tried until it killed her, didn't it? This is the wrong place to dare to be a woman. I've seen that for myself.”

Hawke looked up at her. Isabela's eyes were dark, cloudy, and trained unblinkingly on the girl in Hawke's arms. “Do you want to hold her?” she tried.

An eternity later, Isabela answered. She cleared her throat. “I suppose so. Pass her here.”

The girl reached for Isabela in the same moment Isabela reached for her. The child's soft, happy croon was the only sound in the room; she clung to Isabela like she'd never wanted anything more. Hawke thought she could stare at the two of them all night and be satisfied.

Finally Isabela spoke. “She's a pretty little thing.”

“She is.”

“So quiet.” Isabela touched the child's cheek with one finger, a ghost of a caress. Her gaze was soft but uncertain—a tentative tenderness, a compromise between the harsh words from before and whatever had seized her in the alley. “When she's not crying, I mean. She's big enough that she should be babbling.”

“Well, she's tired,” Hawke said quietly, struggling to keep the delight and reverence out of her voice at the sight—this tiny thing, curled tight in Isabela's arms, long lashes fluttering with the descent of sleep. She was nothing but trust, no understanding that she ought to be afraid.

“Exhausted,” Isabela said. She looked up and smiled. “And so am I. So the two of us will take the bed. Plenty of room for you on the floor.”

“Ha. Very funny.” Hawke matched her smile. “She'll be fine between us, won't she?”

“Mm,” Isabela agreed. “It'll be the best way to keep her warm.”

Hawke paused and took in the sight for a minute longer. “Then let's hurry up and get to bed. This has been arguably the longest day of my entire life.”

Isabela set the girl down and reached out to take Hawke's hands in hers. “And look at you, still in one piece, sweet thing.”

Hawke smiled and squeezed her hands. "I know. Impressive, right?"

They undressed quickly, tossing off the scratching shifts, and settled into the tiny bed. The girl fit between them—barely enough extra room left over to breathe. Hawke was glad for the closeness, glad for Isabela's presence right beside her on this strange, too-long night. It wasn't the first time they'd been crammed together into a little bed in a questionable establishment. But it was certainly the first time they'd had company.

“We'll find _something_ to do with her,” Isabela said. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Hawke agreed. When she looked up from the child between them, she expected to meet Isabela's gaze. But Isabela didn't have eyes for anyone but the girl, tiny hands wrapped around Isabela's fingers, staring right back at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise that after this things will actually start to HAPPEN. plot! and whatnot!


	4. iv.

_iv._

_Tomorrow_ came sooner than anyone expected. Long before dawn, in fact, when Hawke was shaken from sleep by the wails of the girl beside her. Hawke rolled to her side and reached out to prod Isabela in the shoulder, the girl screaming herself red-cheeked between them.

“Mm?” Isabela mumbled. She didn't stir, didn't so much as crack open one eye, the perfect picture of sleepy innocence. She was a terrible actor, if you asked Hawke.

“The girl's crying. Do something.” Hawke spoke in a whisper, as if it wasn't already too late to worry about waking the child.

Isabela yawned and pulled the blankets higher on her shoulders. “Oh. I thought that was you.”

“Isabela!”

She opened one eye, giving Hawke a glare somewhat belied by the softness of sleep in her face. “Quiet down,” she said sternly, placing one hand on the girl's stomach. “This is a time for sleeping, little sparrow.”

The girl quieted on command, staring with wide, wet eyes up at Isabela. And then she inhaled sharply and screamed like her little lungs might burst.

“Oh, for fuck—” Isabela looked fully awake at last, and not in the least bit pleased about it. “What's the matter with you?” she demanded.

“Don't yell at a baby!”

“She's not a baby, I'm not yelling, and I'm talking to _you_!” Isabela rolled onto her back and sighed up at the ceiling, theatrical enough to be heard even over the girl's heaving cries. “I haven't done anything to deserve this. All I wanted was one good night of sleep. And yet—!”

Hawke groaned, matching Isabela in melodrama, and pushed herself out of bed. She bent over to pick up the girl, who only squealed louder and reached for Isabela when Hawke lifted her from the bed. Hawke tried to hold her like Isabela had showed her, cradling the girl close against her body. The swaying bit felt awkward—she didn't have Isabela's easy grace—but then again, the child didn't seem to care of Hawke made a fool of herself and Isabela had Hawke's pillow pulled over her head, so no one was watching Hawke's ungainly half-dance across the room.

The girl's cries began to sound different, and then they shifted into nothing more than the rapid sucking-in of air, the shaking of her little back. And then she stilled.

Hawke glanced at Isabela, who had shifted to sprawl across the whole bed, legs and arms thrown about at all angles, the sheet only half on her, her hair cast about like some wild mane. Ready to sleep through the end of the world, Hawke thought. Isabela stirred. She pulled the pillow off her face and rewarded Hawke with a wide, sleepy smile.

“Look at you, sweet thing. You've done it. Now come back to bed.”

“She's probably hungry,” Hawke said, her whisper too loud. She tried again, quieter: “And her linen's soiled again.”

Isabela grimaced. She grabbed the pillow again and disappeared underneath it. “Can't hear a word you're saying.”

Hawke sighed. “We're on our own, little sparrow,” she told the girl in her arms. The child's breathing was still too unsteady for her to be asleep; her back was warm, not quite feverish, but still agitated. There was bread left on the tray by the fire, clean cloth in the form of those borrowed tunics on the floor. Hawke set to work. She sat by the hearth, the girl in her lap, and did what she could to soothe her.

She talked softly the whole time, explaining things to the sleepy-eyed girl—apologies for not being very good at any of it, mostly.

“We'll see what we can do for you tomorrow,” Hawke whispered, with only the briefest of glances to make sure Isabela was really asleep. “Find somewhere where you'll really be taken care of. I'd take you home, if we could. Only we can't.”

The girl cooed wordlessly, reaching towards Hawke, her tiny fists opening and closing. Hawke smiled, letting the girl's fingers close around hers. Her grip was firm, stronger than it had felt earlier. Hawke squeezed back.

“You're a fighter. An absolute wonder,” Hawke said, low and serious. The girl stared up at her with those deep, dark eyes. Biting back the affection she knew she'd be better off not feeling, Hawke swept her up into her arms at last. “There. Fed and clean, how's that? Ready for bed?”

“Ah-da,” the girl gurgled, patting Hawke's chin with one little hand. Tiny, wordless noises—but still enough for Hawke to fall back to sleep with a grin on her face, lost in dreams of small hands in hers, small feet following in her footprints, a small voice echoing hers, just a hint of melancholy to every minute of it.

Dawn came earlier than she would have liked, accompanied by Isabela draped on top of her like a cloak—a slightly haphazard cloak, at any rate, with her head pressed into Hawke's shoulder and her legs thrown about her. “Good morning,” Isabela mumbled as soon as Hawke stirred, her voice heavy with sleep and contentment. “Are you as tired as I am? Because I'm thinking about staying in this bed forever.”

Hawke shifted beneath her and stretched as best as she could with Isabela sprawled on top of her. “Mm. More tired, probably, since I was changing smelly linen all night.” Her eyes popped open. “Wait. Where's the girl?”

“Suma has her. If you listen carefully, you can hear him singing to her through the wall. It's adorable.”

Hawke took a deep breath and let her eyes flutter shut again. “I thought maybe she'd already been dropped off somewhere.”

Isabela nuzzled closer to her, drawing circles on Hawke's arm with idle fingers. “I had an idea about that, actually.”

“Okay,” Hawke said slowly. She braced herself for something she wouldn't like. “What is it?”

“I think we had it right last night. We can't leave her here. Let's take her with us the rest of the way. We'll have more options in Antiva City—we can make sure she'll be safe.”

Hawke blinked up at the ceiling. “You're serious?”

“Serious,” Isabela confirmed. “I've decided to do a good deed. How's that for character development? And I just—” She exhaled, adopting a tone of steely brightness. “We're not leaving her here, and that's that. But she's your responsibility until Antiva, not mine.”

“Of course! Yes, yes, absolutely.” Hawke rolled to the side so they were face to face and pinned Isabela with a wide grin. This was _something,_ at least. One less thing she'd have sitting heavy on her conscience. To know the girl would be alright—well, maybe that would be enough. “You're terribly gorgeous when you do things like heroically rescue orphans, you know.”

Isabela laughed. She cupped Hawke's cheek in one hand and pulled her in for a long, slow kiss that turned into a trail of kisses down her neck, enough to send shivers down Hawke's spine. “Let's disappear for a bit after this, sweet thing. Sell this shipment and vanish off the face of the earth. We'll go somewhere remote and spend six weeks straight in bed, how's that? We'll be too busy to even think about arguing.”

“Mm, that sounds too easy. Knowing us, something will go terribly wrong and we'll end up having to save the whole world.”

“The world can get fucked,” Isabela declared. “I only care about you and me.”

Hawke laughed, exuberant, and pushed Isabela back into the pillows, straddling her thigh and leaning down to kiss her in the same easy motion. “It's been a while since it was just you and me, hasn't it?”

“Too long. When are you going to do something about it?”

Isabela countered Hawke's light, teasing kiss by nipping at her collarbone in the way that always sent stars exploding behind Hawke's fluttering lids; it left Hawke breathless, dizzy, more than a little overeager. Her hands left fire in their wake, trailing over Hawke's body, down to grip her by the hips. When Isabela arched up against Hawke, mouth on her neck and thigh hot between her legs, an involuntary moan slipped past Hawke's lips.

A sudden sharp rap on the door broke them apart, Isabela with a stream of curses and Hawke with a shaky breath.

“Let's move,” came Cudjo's rumble through the door. “We don't have all the bloody day!”

“I can kill him,” Isabela whispered, leaning in close. “Suma, too. That should buy us a few extra minutes.”

Hawke stifled a laugh against Isabela's shoulder. She kissed her there, right in the midst of her clustered freckles. “You'd better not. We'll need them to carry everything back to the ship.”

Isabela groaned. “Middle of nowhere. Six weeks in bed. I want your word, Hawke.”

“Mm.” Hawke pressed a kiss to Isabela's forehead. “You have it.”

By noon, Hawke was proven right: without the men, their mission would have been an impossibility. Hawke and Cudjo each managed one bundle of lumber on their backs and one armful of supplies, but only Suma could haul the cart—which Cudjo had gotten for them with some well-placed threats—filled with all the rest. Isabela, meanwhile, enjoyed all the privileges of a captain. She walked in front, ostensibly to help pave their way, carrying only the girl. For all Isabela's claims that the girl was Hawke's responsibility, she'd been remarkably quick to claim that she'd be too busy with the girl strapped to her chest to bother with any of the heavy lifting. No amount of protesting about _fairness_ and _fundamental moral decency_ and _shitty knickers, this is heavy!_ swayed her.

The day dragged and dragged as they trudged through the foliage; the sticky humidity of the morning only worsened as the afternoon crawled on, until Hawke's hair stuck to her forehead and she couldn't help but mutter one complaint after another.

“I'm going to die, you know,” she said, matter-of-fact. “If you make me carry this for one more step, I'm just going to fall right over and die.”

Isabela didn't give her so much as a glance. “No one lives forever, sweet thing.”

Hawke groaned, hoisted her bundle on her back, and kept putting one foot in front of the other. “Don't you want to take a turn? It's fun! Builds character.”

Cudjo grunted. “Bloody tits, you never give it a rest, do you? Why don't we trade and see how chatty you are with my load?”

“I'd love to give it a rest. Kick my feet up, sit by a fire, take a nice nap.”

Isabela looked down to the girl she carried on her chest, lifting her voice into a childish, exaggerated croon. “Can you say _put a sock in it, Hawke_?”

“We are almost there,” Suma said from behind, placid and stern at once, no sign of exertion in his voice despite the cart he pulled. “Perhaps everyone could be silent the rest of the way.”

By some miracle, everyone obeyed. Even the girl was content to bob there silently but for the occasional coo, seemingly soothed by the rhythm of Isabela's steps. Out of the corner of her eye, Hawke saw Isabela lift a hand to the girl every once in a while, smiling down at her while the child fiddled with her rings or grabbed at her fingers. Hawke might have been more charmed if she wasn't so envious of the light load.

Finally, an eternity later, the foliage faded into nothing, making way for rocks and sand. There she was: the _Encanto_ , gorgeous even in her disrepair, beached high on the shore, with her crew spread out before her. Brand was the first to meet them, jogging across the beach with a shout and a wave. The grin dropped off his face as soon as he skidded to a stop in front of them, replaced with an incredulous stare and a swinging jaw.

“It's a long story,” Cudjo said. “Have the captain tell it.”

“Right,” Brand said, dragging the word out. He shook his head, as if to dispel his shock, finally finding words: “You lot go meet with Landen and the boys, get started on what you can.”

Hawke wanted to linger long enough to hear Isabela's telling of it, but Cudjo knocked her shoulder, drawing her after him. Still, she couldn't resist a look over her shoulder, just long enough to see Brand leaning down to stare disbelievingly at the girl eye-to-eye, Isabela's fingers combing through the girl's gauzy curls.

With a sigh of relief, Hawke dropped her load to the shore. “What can I do, then, boss?” she asked, flashing a weary smile at Landen.

He gave her a gap-toothed grin in response and, without hesitation, crushed her silent hope that he'd let her off easy. He pressed a hammer into her hands. “Take this an' hit whatever Kip tells you to.”

Hawke glanced at Kip, Landen's wiry, olive-skinned apprentice—a role which only meant that he did the dirty work Landen didn't want to do himself. She had a feeling that the rest of her day would be as long as it was sweaty.

When she voiced as much to Kip, he only laughed.

The work passed slowly, though not as slowly as it might have without the whole crew at work. An afternoon turned into the better part of four days. Four days, and then—

With one great heaving creak, the shuddering whip of a sail, and the sound of waves against wood, the _Encanto_ claimed the sea for her own one more time.

The cheer that went up seemed to fill every last inch of sky, hanging in the air. At Hawke's side, with her ragged feathered hat back on her head and the sea ahead of her, Isabela let out the loudest, giddiest shout of all.

“Days away from Antiva City and more gold than we'll know what to do with!” Brand shouted, swinging over them in the rigging. The ship slowly picked up speed, making good on, at the very least, the first part of his promise. When the rocky shores of Brandel's Reach disappeared behind them, the whole crew applauded and whooped.

Their first day back at sea passed in a blur, the return of a routine after too many days without. The second day was different; at last there was enough time to breathe easy, to grow settled once again. Hawke spent the morning in the crow's nest, watching behind them. No Orlesian sails fluttered in the distance. No danger loomed, at least for a little bit longer. By the time Hawke set foot on the deck again, spirits were high: the men sang off-key and loud, the skies were clear and the wind pushed them on, and their destination didn't feel so far away. When Hawke made it to the helm, Isabela greeted her with a wide smile and leaned in to press a kiss to her cheek.

“Where's our sparrow at, sweet thing?”

“I think Madi's got her,” Hawke said, casting a glance around for some sight of the child or of Madhav, her newest guardian. By the end of the first day back on shore, the crew had still mostly regarded the girl as a small, loud nuisance eating all their rations. By the end of the second day, Isabela had to break up a scuffle between three men over who would get the next chance to hold the child, each once equally convinced that the girl would have the _most_ fun with him and him alone. Hawke didn't think she'd ever get used to the sight of some burly, scarred-up pirate cooing and beaming at a giggling child—the men's roaring laughter and big doe-eyes were proof that there was more to it than wanting to get out of carpentry. By the time Hawke retired to Isabela's cabin each night, the child in her arms, the girl was exhausted; she'd even slept through the last night, which was nearly enough to make Hawke cry from joy.

Isabela looked at her sideways. “You _think_ he's got her?”

“Unless he's passed her on to someone else.”

“Hm.” Isabela pressed her lips together, a protective glint in her eyes. She loved her crew, she'd told Hawke; that didn't mean she trusted them not to misplace a child well before Antiva. “Should you go check and make sure no one's forgotten about her?”

“Madi's good with her,” Hawke promised. She kissed Isabela before she could voice an objection. “He's so good that we'll have to be careful he doesn't want to keep her.”

Isabela pulled a face. “Ha. We ought to talk about that tonight, actually. What our plan is for Antiva—for her.”

“Right,” Hawke said, careful. She studied Isabela's face, searching for some hint of whatever might be going on in her mind, but there was nothing. They hadn't discussed it for days. Isabela hadn't brought it up; Hawke hadn't wanted to be the one to say anything, not with her heart full to the point of bursting every time she so much as looked at the girl. And each night—each night that they each avoided saying a single word about what awaited in Antiva City—when the last light faded and the stars shone bright above, Hawke had watched as Isabela sat on the deck with the girl in her lap and, in quiet whispers, informed the child about their progress that day, as serious as if she'd been talking to Brand: how soon they'd be ship-shape again, what went wrong and what went right, what the weather might be like for their journey to Antiva. And then more, always more, but the rest in Rivaini too complicated for Hawke to understand.

One night, watching from across the deck, Hawke had raised her brows at Isabela in a silent question. After, Isabela had only shrugged: _Well, she's a better listener than you._

The fact was, Hawke thought, that the girl was growing on Isabela, just like she was growing on every last man of the crew. It was unmistakable in the quirk of Isabela's smile when the girl shoved a finger in her nose or spat up all over poor, long-suffering Cudjo; undeniable in the softness of Isabela voice when she reached out to take the girl from someone else, the quiet crooning lilt no matter if she was saying _mi gorrióncita_ or _you smelly little thing_. After nearly a week of this unexpected presence, Hawke had grown so accustomed to the sight of the girl in Isabela's arms that she'd almost forgotten this was all only temporary.

And so, that night, as Isabela paced the confines of the cabin, Hawke sat there with the child asleep against her, and waited—and waited—and waited—for Isabela to say the first word of the unavoidable conversation.

“I don't like this,” Isabela said finally. She came to a halt just long enough to plant her hands on her hips and let out a sharp huff of a breath.

Hawke waited, and when no elaboration came, she cleared her throat. “Don't like what?”

“The idea of dropping her somewhere in Antiva City.” Again she froze, hands on her hips and her back to Hawke.

“Why?”

“ _Because,_ Hawke,” Isabela said, as if it were staggeringly obvious. “Where would we leave her? That's not a place to be an orphan. It's an impossible problem.”

The very faintest thread of hope curled in Hawke's belly. “We could leave her with the Chantry,” Hawke offered. Isabela's shoulders stiffened.

“Right. Treated like a servant, all the joy crushed out of her to make room for a steaming heap of bullshit. Lovely.”

“With someone we trust, then. It doesn't have to be Antiva. Someone back in the Marches, maybe.”

Isabela twisted back to face Hawke at that, a deep scowl lining her face. “And never know a word about her own people? Never once see a face like hers?”

Hawke frowned. “I'm only tossing out ideas. You don't have to be upset with me.”

Isabela gritted her teeth and studied the ceiling. “Just because I don't like your ideas doesn't mean I have any better ones.”

“What about someone you know in Rivain? One of your connections in Llomerryn?”

Isabela's attention snapped back to Hawke. “Are you joking? You've met everyone I know in Llomerryn. I wouldn't so much as leave any of them in charge of a houseplant.” She shook her head. “There's no one. No one's going to protect her the right way.”

Hawke traced a pattern in the sheet. She tugged her lip between her teeth, carefully turning the sentence over again and again before she dared to say it: “We would, wouldn't we?”

Isabela went silent. Hawke looked up, expecting to see anger or frustration or something close enough to it. But Isabela was staring down at the floor.

“Don't be ridiculous, Hawke,” she said. “It's not an option.”

“Why?”

“You _know._ You know I don't want anything to do with this—this sort of responsibility.” A long, tortured pause. “Children,” she said, the single word heavy with all its implications.

And Hawke did know. They'd only talked about it once and only once before, years ago, but once had been enough—once, along with all the times Isabela hadn't needed to say a single word for Hawke to know what she was thinking.

The conversation—the Once And Only Once conversation—had been soon after things (the period they still described solely and vaguely as _after things_ , still too afraid of the jagged edges to describe it as _after the thing with the Qunari and the running away and the broken heart and the three years_ ). Too soon, really, but Hawke had always been the type for too soon. As they stood there, right in the middle of the market square with their fingers interlaced casually enough to make Hawke's heart race, a child had come tearing right between the two of them in some wild game of chase.

And then Hawke had looked at Isabela, stars in her eyes, and ruined everything. “I can't wait to have kids,” she had said, gaze shifting to the game of tag in the distance. “I'll be an incredible mother. Possibly the best in the world. Definitely the funniest and most charming.”

At this, she'd turned to Isabela and grinned, fishing tactlessly for confirmation; Isabela had only pursed her lips. She barely bothered to look at Hawke.

Hawke had swallowed and tried again, even with dread curling in her stomach to replace the joy of a moment before. “I don't know. It's just one of the things I'm looking forward to, once the 'people trying to kill me' count goes down by a few.”

“Mm.” Isabela had given her a token of a smile, one that didn't reach her eyes, and continued surveying the distance with vague disinterest.

Hawke never knew when to stop pushing her luck. “Do you think you—”

“No.” Gentle yet firm. “That's not for me, sweet thing. Not ever. You know that. Let's go get a drink, hm?”

Hawke had stared at the boys in the distance for a moment, carefully reshaping everything in her mind—after this, after _things_ , she knew she would cut anything out of her life to keep Isabela in it—and then she smiled. “My place or yours?”

And then neither ever raised the subject again. Not throughout the years when they'd been too busy to do anything other than survive, and not at the very end, when they'd stood there in the settling dust of Kirkwall and spilled forth every hoarse promise they'd held onto for years. Oh, they talked about other things (though not always at great length: s _hould we get married, preserve our last glittering remnants of honor,_ Hawke whispered at least twice a year, and at least twice a year, Isabela laughed and kissed her and said _I think you're drunk, sweet thing_ ) but never this.

There were certain things, Hawke thought then and thought now, that you just have to live with when you love someone so much that your heart skips approximately twenty-seven beats every time she smiles in her sleep. Like the fact that she snores just a little bit, and always brews the tea too strong, and sees every fight as a competition she has to win. This was one of those things. She'd filed her resignation away, buried in deep down in her heart, and focused on the important things, like Isabela's hand in hers.

But now, sitting in _their_ bed in _their_ ship, with—Hawke swallowed hard— _their_ little sparrow in her lap, Hawke could feel the familiar stupid hope flooding over her again.

“Is it really impossible?” she asked. At the sound of her own voice, rough and unsteady, her cheeks went hot with embarrassment. She tried again. “I mean, I—she's different, isn't she? She is.”

Isabela stared at her like she was seeing her for the first time, as distantly as if her mind too was years and miles away. “You want her to stay with us.” It was almost a question, but not quite.

“I would. I would. If you did.” Hawke took a tremulous breath. “There's no one who'd be better for her. I know you care about her, Bela. I know we'd be best.”

For a long minute, Isabela just stared, the same look lingering in her eyes. And then she shook her head and turned her back on Hawke again. “That shows how much you know,” she said, the faintest hint of bitter laughter in her voice. “I can't think of anyone who'd be worse for her than me.”

“Why?”

Isabela turned back. She gave Hawke a tired, sour smile. “If you'd had a mother like mine, you'd understand.”

“You're not like your mother.”

“You didn't know my mother.”

“I don't need to know her to know you're not the same. I've seen you with her—” She cast her eyes down at the girl in her lap, then back to Isabela. She could see it in Isabela's eyes, the same devouring darkness that accompanied each mention of her mother. “You're good with her, Isabela. You're wonderful. She called you _mami_  that first night.”

Isabela's smile tightened. “She didn't. She was just making sounds.”

Hawke took a breath, steadied her voice and straightened her shoulders. “If you're certain, then say it one more time. Tell me we need to leave her somewhere, wherever it is, and I'll let it go, I will, I promise. I just want to know that you mean it.”

Isabela went quiet. She stared at the girl in Hawke's lap, her face unreadable, her stare intense. “Can I hold her?” she asked, her voice soft as a breath.

Hawke rose and met Isabela across the cabin. The girl fit right into Isabela's arms, just like she belonged, hardly stirring from her slumber. Hawke brushed Isabela's waist with her fingertips, felt her loosen, and then drew her close. It wasn't much of an embrace, the girl between them, Isabela's arms full. But it was enough. 

“I can't say it.” Isabela's voice was hoarse. When she looked up at Hawke her eyes were wet. “I can't. But I can't say what you want me to, either. Not tonight. Alright?”

“Alright,” Hawke murmured, face pressed against Isabela's hair. “Alright. You don't have to say another word until Antiva.”

Later, Hawke wouldn't remember the way the night ended. She wouldn't remember the long minutes they stood there, hardly breathing, both staring at their little charge; she wouldn't remember their weary stumble towards bed; she wouldn't remember the way Isabela twisted away from her in the night, just like she wouldn't remember the way Isabela turned back. All she would remember was the next morning: Isabela shaking her awake, eyes dark and serious, and the sound of her voice—

“I want her to stay. Maybe not forever, maybe only until we find a better option. But right now, I want her here. With us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> familiar faces coming up next time in antiva!!


End file.
